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It was dark. I remember because the cross on top of the building was aglow. It was raining too, causing the white lights to warp. My small fingers traced the uncommon path of drops that slid down the outside of my window in the back seat. The street lights around me blurred in the haze, but I could clearly see that cross standing distinctly above The Christ Hospital. I told myself I was going to work there someday.

I don't remember the why, but I can go back to remembering the when. It must have started during my first year of school as I filled out the question in a little book my mom bought me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Always, every year, it was a nurse.

There was a small space in time during my senior year of high school when I thought that I would like to go to school for writing, but I didn't have the courage to change course so late in the game. I started at the University of Cincinnati that fall, and shortly thereafter at the age of …

I sat in the last row. There before me, before all of us was a large cross laying claim to the front center of the humble space. The speakers came, one at a time, to stand behind the pulpit as we listened to their stories. It was a light affair, if you could consider a funeral to be so, but the spoken words about a man who was cherished held weight. He was honored and respected. Heads nodded in agreement at the truths being shared, and somehow the occasion of a life gone quietly from the earth did not hurt in the most terrible way. It was a celebration of life lived well.

Last night I had a dream. The details have gone fuzzy now, but I still remember the emotions that stirred me awake. He was gone. My son's life taken from my own, and I would never hold the warmth of him again. It was final. Permanent. I was left touching the ache of my helpless sorrow, my hands erasing tears that would never cease to fall. I was broken to pieces and spilled out on the floor. Even i…